About blood
by Just-make-something-up
Summary: Just some pointless hurt/comfort. Because I can. Morse gets sick so they have to take blood, and well... he doesn't like it. Thursday is on for the rescue. The title absolutely sucks, but I couldn't think of anything better. All reviews are welcome! DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of these characters, as much as I would like it. (If someone has a little Morse for sale, I'll buy him.)


Morse could just be such a bóy. If you wanted him to be careful, you had to threaten him with hospitals, doctors and bed rest. Hell, you even had to come to his flat and practically force him into bed. Thursday knew this; he probably knew it better then anyone. He had done it way to many times.  
Today was no different. Is started with the usual. 'I'm fine.' 'I don't get sick.' 'It's just a cold.' 'It will pass.'  
The lies continued till lunch break. But when Thursday got up to go outside and eat his bread in the early-summer sunshine, things changed.  
'You coming, Morse?' he asked.  
No answer. Not that he had expected one. Thursday just kept walking towards the door. 'Wake up from your thoughts, lad. That's what a break is for. To be stupid for a few minutes. Yes, even you.'  
He hád expected an answer this time, but nothing came. Thursday stopped and turned around, only to see his bagman doubled over in his chair. His head was in his arms, as if he was hiding the fact that he was sleeping on his desk, or maybe even hiding his face for a much worse reason.  
A soft, sniffling noise came from under his arms.  
'Morse?' Thursday asked, with a quick jog back to the lad. 'Are you okay?'  
Morse didn't look up till he put his hand on his back. When he did, his face was grey as the rainclouds over Oxford and his eyes seemed – if possible – even bigger than usual.  
He sniffled again, but no tears, thank God.  
'I thought you never got sick, lad.' Thursday said. It was supposed to sound sarcastic or at least amused, but instead he only heard pity in his own voice.  
'I'm fine,' Morse rasped for about the hundred time.  
'No, you are not. Can you stand? We are going to get you into your bed as soon as possible.'  
The fact that Morse didn't even bother to resist, only had Thursday more worried. Firmly he put his arm under the armpits of the lad and practicly lifted him from his chair. He weighed about as much as Sam – when he had been ten years old, Thursday thought.  
'Come on, off we go.'  
Slowly they shuffled to the door. But they hadn't even made it halfway, when DeBryn burst in. He was waving some paper.  
'Reports,' he announced to nobody special, 'I've found they- '  
But he stopped mid-sentence when he saw Morse and Thursday standing between the desks, or well, Thursday standing and Morse more or less holding onto him.  
'What's going on here?' he asked.  
'As you see, Morse is – ' Thursday started, but that became the second sentence in about a minute to be cut short.  
Morse, who had started to tremble more and more during the walk, just collapsed. There was no sound – no scream or cry – he didn't try to grasp anything and he didn't stumble, either. He just collapsed in the middle of the office.  
Thursday was fast enough to get him before his head hit the ground. DeBryn stood and watched. 'Well, that's the third time I see him do that, isn't it?' the doctor said dryly. 'Does he do it that often, or just always when I'm there?'  
'He just keeps bloody doing it,' Thursday said. 'No help me get him to a chair.'  
Together, they picked up the young man, and this time, Thursday was actually glad with how skinny he was. They settled Morse down in the big chair in his office. 'Just going to get my stuff.' DeBryn said.  
Morse woke up by the time DeBryn got back and closed the door behind him. He furiously blinked and slowly got up to look around. He didn't only look pale now, but also confused and maybe a little bit scared. 'What bloody happened?' he asked.  
'You fainted.' Thursday said. 'So we got you here. Won't make it a habit, will you, lad?'  
But when he saw the boy grit his teeth, he skipped the sarcasm and snatched the metal trashcan from under his desk.  
Just in time. Morse almost ripped it out of his hands and retched. His whole body trembled with the violence of the movement, while he kept heaving into the trashcan.  
Thursday hesitated for a moment; then he reached out and put his hand on the back of the lad. He rubbed it soothingly while the boy removed his breakfast – if he had even had so much – and probably his diner from the former evening too.  
By the time he was done, he was sweating and his eyes were teary. 'I'm sorry.' he mumbled.  
Somehow, that really touched Thursday. 'Nothing to apologize for, lad.' he said, briskly and friendly at the same time. 'But if you would have DeBryn have a look on you, that would really be great.'  
Morse didn't seem to have any energy left. He was just slumped in the chair, looking very little and fragile.  
To be sure, Thursday put the trashcan within hand reach.  
'Now, let me look, then.' DeBryn said. He had already taken a thermometer and a stethoscope. The first one he put in Morse's mouth. The second he warmed in his hand for a moment before pushing Morse's jacket and shirt up, and putting it on his chest.  
'The flu, probably.' he said after a few moments of listening. 'It should sound way much clearer then it does.'  
He took the thermometer out, but only gave it a short glance. 'And fever, but I could tell that just from looking at him.'  
Thursday couldn't resist the urge to put his hand on Morse's brow. It felt hot and clammy.  
'I'll take some blood, just to be sure.' DeBryn was looking in his bag again, lying stuff out on Thursdays desk. So he didn't see the look of horror that struck Morse face.  
The lad might have seemed almost out; the words DeBryn spoke got him waking up fast enough.  
'Why would you want to take blood?' he asked, slurring a little, like someone who had been asleep for a long time.  
'Because you might have some other dubious illness going on.' DeBryn said. He pulled out a needle. 'That dog that got your leg the other day, last time you just climed over a hedge? Might have had anything. It's no season for flu's.'  
'It was just a scratch! And I had it checked! ' Morse was fully awake now and tried to get out of the chair, but Thursday pushed him back gently. 'Just let him go on, Morse.' he said. 'It's either this, or hospital.'  
'Hospital? I've just got the flu!' Morse was trembling now, and Thursday couldn't feel anything but a deep pity for the boy. His heart hurt from it. But if he showed that, he would surely loose this fight, and he couldn't let him get away with another injury.  
'It's really unnessisary.' Morse wasn't the one to easily give up, either. 'I'll just get some sleep and tea, and I'll be fine in no time.'  
'Would you please shut up?' Thursday said. 'You can get this the easy or the hard way, but we are going to take the bloody blood! If you want me to knock you out, just say so.'  
Thursday could sound very severe, if he wanted to. It was the voice he usually used for suspects that didn't want to talk. It shut Morse up directly. He just sat there and that ridiculously big chair, and looked up at Thursday with his just so ridiculous big eyes.  
The look in those eyes was hurt: plain, simple hurt. Immediately, Thursday felt sorry for his scolding.  
'Just get over with it, Morse.' he said gently. 'DeBryn will be done in no time; you know he will. And after that, I can drive you home and make you that tea. It will be fine.'  
Morse sighed and nodded, defended. As DeBryn came in sight, syringe in his hand, he swallowed thickly.  
Thursday got a crutch from beneath his desk and sat down next to Morse. He watched as the lads fingers ducked deep into the leather, his knuckles white.  
'Try to relax,' DeBryn advised. 'It's easy: just do the exact opposite form what you are doing now.'  
But Morse only tensed more as the doctor rolled up his sleeve and put his arm down on the armrest. The soft inside of his elbow was up, veins blue under freckled skin.  
DeBryn set everything ready to get the blood, and then cleaned the crook of his arm. 'Deep breaths.' he said.  
Morse looked away; by accident, his blue eyes met Thursday's grey ones. The last one smiled soothingly. 'It will be fine.' he repeated. 'You won't even feel it.'  
'He will feel it,' DeBryn said, earnest as ever. 'It will sting.' he looked at Morse. 'No matter what they say, it always stings.'  
'I don't care about stinging!' Morse answered, almost mad. 'You both know I don't care about injury or pain or whatever. I just don't like blood flowing out of my, not even in a controlled manner.'  
Before Thursday knew what he was doing, he had put his hand on Morse's knee. They both looked at it with slight surprise.  
'Think of something else.' he said. 'The case. Opera. Anything. You will forget there even is a needle.'  
'Now can I start?' DeBryn asked, and he muttered under his breath: 'At least you two have reminded me of why I work with dead guys.'  
Thursday got his hand back, and Morse looked intense at his own fingers, as if he had never seen such a rare thing.  
'On the count of three.' DeBryn said. 'One, two – '  
Morse let out a tiny shriek and winced. Thursday put his hand on the lads shoulder and kept it there. He made slow circles with his thumb as he listened to the heavy breathing of his bagman.  
'Keep breathing even,' DeBryn instructed. 'I'll count. Slowly in, that's one. Hold it for a second, yes, now let it out. Two – '  
As slow as his breathing, Morse calmed. The rest of the procedure, he just looked away and, Thursday assumed, did as he had told him: he thought of other things then needles and flowing blood.  
When at last DeBryn took out the needle, he looked as if he was ready to pass out. Still, he managed to smile a little relieved once all the medical stuff was gone.  
DeBryn had turned his back on them and hummed some dubious song.  
'You did well.' Thursday said. He even meant it, he noticed while forming the words. Somehow, he felt a little proud of his trembling bagman.  
'I acted like a child, you mean.' Morse answered. He sounded annoyed, ashamed and tired at the same time.  
'You didn't act like a child. Everyone is afraid of something. At least you had the courage to just get over with it, instead of making some scene.'  
'Yeah, after like half an hour.' Morse muttered, but he sounded, if even a little, pleased with the compliment.  
'Next new years eve, as there is firework, you might as well be holding my hand.' Thursday said, trying to joke, but nobody laughed. Morse just looked at him kind of chocked.  
'Jokes about PTSD not funny in a police station?' Thursday asked. 'Well, I should have known.'  
Suddenly, Morse kind of chuckled; a sound that Thursday didn't hear him make often. Relieve, he guessed. Relieve is was over, without him puking, or fainting, or crying, or whatever he had been afraid to do.  
'That scene you sketched,' Morse said, 'In which you drive me home and make me some tea, is that still an option?'  
Thursday smiled, too. 'It is.' he said.  
'Well then,' Morse answered, looking up at him a bit like a kid, or a puppy; an innocent, trusting look. 'Let's go.'  
'Win will probably want you to come over for diner when you feel a little better.' Thursday got to his feet. 'Now I've seen your chest again, I remember why. You could use some good, homemade food.'  
Morse sighed, but it was a friendly sigh. 'I bet I'll feel much better after some sleep.' he said. 'Maybe I'll even be able to work again, tomorrow.'  
'I will tie you up in your bed if you try to!' Thursday said. He supported the bony lad to the car, his hand careful at the center of his back.


End file.
